


Afraid to Touch

by The_Arkadian



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2010-10-01
Updated: 2012-06-13
Packaged: 2017-10-12 08:22:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/122872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Arkadian/pseuds/The_Arkadian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Though very tactile on his own terms, Sherlock is terrified to be touched. John resolves to find out why and somehow help Sherlock come to terms with his past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written in response to this prompt on sherlockbbc_fic: http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/2727.html?thread=4843175#t4843175
> 
> Can I see some subtly traumatized Sherlock?
> 
> Sherlock is a touchy feely sort of guy- but only when he's the one instigating the physical contact. If someone pats him on the shoulder, or- god forbid- leans in to kiss him, Sherlock panics. He freezes up and lets it happen, but it's very, very obvious that he's shut himself off into a little corner of his mind, away from where the bad man can't hurt him.
> 
> It's broken the hearts of alot of potential lovers who knew they couldn't handle that kind of emotional commitment, but John wants to try, goddammit.

It threw John badly the first time it happened.

They'd been wrapping up the end of a case together, going over notes and loose ends. Sherlock had leaned over John's back as John pointed out something on the laptop screen Sherlock had missed, Sherlock resting his chin on John's shoulder. John had smiled at Sherlock's surprised "Well done, John - I didn't spot that!" and without thinking, reached up to ruffle the unruly black mop of hair affectionately.

Sherlock stiffened against his back, holding his breath. John glanced sideways. "Sherlock? You OK?"

"Fine. Fine," he answered tonelessly, dropping his gaze to the tabletop, not moving. John stroked the hair briefly in eassurance; Sherlock closed his eyes, stiff and unmoving. A little unnerved, John let his hand drop; Sherlock remained frozen for a moment longer, then pulled away. John turned in his seat to watch with concern as Sherlock silently made his way to the sofa and curled up in a ball at the far end, staring sightlessly into space.

After that, John kept a closer eye on Sherlock. Now he knew what to look for, he was surprised he hadn't seen it earlier. A part of him had already registered that for a supposed sociopath ("Self-diagnosed," he kept reminding himself), Sherlock was remarkably tactile; light touches on a forearm as he talked to you, a brief hand on the shoulder as he passed, finding excuses to lean close over your shoulder, his breath warm and sweet against your cheek as he looked over your shoulder. Shared taxi rides home after an energetic chase in which he dozed off, resting his head trustingly upon your shoulder. Mornings reading the newspaper when he'd come and sit on the floor like some great big cat, relaxing companionably against your leg (the "good" one, never the one that pained you even though you both knew full well the pain was psychosomatic; he was always gentle and careful about that even though you both never said anything) with one arm draped over your knee and claim the paper so you could both read it together.

But when you dropped your hand companionably onto that bony shoulder (always so thin through the silk dressing gown but you knew better by now than to nag him about breakfast), he would go so still and silent, his whole body tensing up.

John wondered how he'd been so blind before.

He was looking out for it when the drunk threw her arms around Sherlock. Watched as Sherlock froze; the way his eyes filled with a brief, blind panic before sliding into a glassy emptiness as the drunk woman started slurring in his ear before claiming his mouth with wet kisses, thrusting her tongue between his unresisting lips as he fell back against the wall like a broken marionette.

Broken... yes, that was the word for it, John thought as he wrested the woman off Sherlock, who slumped against the wall, still staring sightlessly into space even as he wrapped his slender arms about his chest and curled in upon himself. He ignored the woman's drunken rambling curses as he pushed her away and knelt down awkwardly in front of the thin man, carefully not touching him as he stared up anxiously into Sherlock's face.

"It's OK," he said quietly. "You're OK."

"No. I'm not," whispered Sherlock. John's face creased with concern and he reached up then stopped, fingers grasping helplessly at the air as Sherlock turned away and abruptly vomited. He slid slowly to his knees, one hand grasping blindly at the wall as he retched. John briefly fought the urge to reach out and hold him as his thin body convulsed. He didn't want to make matters worse, and yet....

As he expected, Sherlock stiffened the moment his arms slipped around his thin frame, but the younger man was too preoccupied with his body's urge to rid itself of the scant contents of his stomach to react fully to the unwanted contact. John cradled him gently, supporting his weight and brushing the sweat-dampened hair back out of the blank grey eyes as Sherlock moaned faintly, still retching as his empty stomach twisted. Finally he sagged, limp and unresisting in John's arms.

"Sherlock?"  
There was no reply. Sherlock may as well have been a rag doll; his face was blank, his eyes closed. John pulled him a little more upright so that Sherlock's head now rested against his chest, and gently he stroked a pale cheek. "Hey. Sherlock. It's John. C'mon, open your eyes?"

Sherlock's eyelids fluttered, long black eyelashes sweeping back slowly as he opened his eyes. Their gaze was still distant and glassy. John gently cupped Sherlock's chin and turned the pale face up. "Look at me Sherlock. Please?"

The eyes focussed on his face obediently, but there was little of Sherlock there. It was as though he had somehow walled himself off inside. John felt his chest tighten painfully; it were as though Sherlock were offering himself up without resistance whilst hiding away inside.

He leaned in closer, and Sherlock closed his eyes, mute and passive. John looked away and swore under his breath.

"Come on, Sherlock. Let's get you home."


	2. Chapter 2

They'd taken a taxi; the first one that responded to John's frantic wave. Sherlock had let himself be gently guided into the back seat by John's hand resting lightly in the small of his back; John made sure he was settled in OK then slid himself over to the opposite side of the seat, careful to leave an empty space between them.

Sherlock slumped down in the seat, hunched up, his face pinched and drawn. John glanced at him, then out of the window. "I'm sorry," he said quietly.

"For what?" asked Sherlock tiredly.

"For... you know. The touching thing."

"Don't be ridiculous," he replied, but without heat; as though it were too much effort to snap back at John. He let his head fall back against the head rest and rolled his eyes to stare disinterestedly out of the window.

"So... who was it?" asked John quietly. Sherlock froze.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he said quietly.

"Oh?" said John, glancing back at Sherlock, one eyebrow creeping upwards. "Sherlock, I know I'm perhaps not as smart as you'd like me to be... but I'm not stupid either."

"Piss off," said Sherlock; he stared fixedly out the window, resolutely not looking at John. "Stop here!" he ordered the driver, and abruptly threw himself out of the cab almost before it could come to a halt.

John swore again to himself. Scrabbling with his seatbelt he thrust a tenner at the driver before hauling himself out of the cab after Sherlock, who was striding swiftly away without a backwards glance.

"Sherlock! Sherlock, wait- oh, for... Sherlock, stop!"

Sherlock slowed, then finally halted, his back tense as he waited just under a streetlight. John limped to catch up, then rounded him to stare up at the pale face.

"So."  
"So...."  
"John, can we please not do this? It's late, I'm tired, you're limping-" Sherlock broke off with a brief cry as John abruptly dropped his cane and reached for Sherlock, pushing him back against the nearby wall as he took the pale, taut face between his warm brown hands. Sherlock's eyes flew wide. "John- don't-" he managed to choke out, and then John kissed him.

It was like kissing a warm ghost, John reflected. There was nothing of Sherlock in the empty body he held; the moment their lips touched, Sherlock blanked out. His eyes glazed over and his lips parted, passive and accepting. John let him go and stepped back, watching.

Sherlock remained still for a moment then shuddered ever so slightly as he closed his eyes and hugged himself, turning away.

"Sherlock...."

"Don't touch me," whispered Sherlock hoarsely. "God. What made you do that? Why would you... oh God." He shuddered and stumbled away a few steps before he whirled around and stared at John. "I thought you were different. I thought...."


	3. Chapter 3

John stared impassively at Sherlock.

The younger man stared back, the blue-grey eyes wild with accusation and distress; his hands clenched and unclenched in agitation. "I thought...."

"Different from whom, Sherlock?" asked John softly, pitching his voice carefully. Sherlock had been shocked out of his passive trance but there was something about him, an air of unpredictability - like a startled wild animal that any minute could turn and flee, and right now John didn't like to think what could happen to his friend whilst in such an unstable state of mind should he suddenly take off.

Sherlock glanced at the ground, struggling with his thoughts and emotions. "You wouldn't understand," he breathed quietly.

"Try me," suggested John gently, taking a single step towards him, hands held loosely and unthreatening at his sides.

Sherlock turned away and slumped against the wall.

John stood and waited patiently, staring down at Sherlock's shoes. Distantly he notes the splashes of mud down near the sole that speckled the smooth black leather; there was a rust-coloured smear near the toe of the nearer shoe. It looked a little like dried blood. Perhaps it was.

Sherlock slid down the wall and hunched down upon the cold pavement, wrapping his arms around his long legs, huddled within his greatcoat. Closing his eyes, he lowered his head until his forehead was resting on his knees. John waited a moment then limped painfully over to his fallen cane. Carefully he bent down to pick it up then made his way over to his friend's side, lowering himself stiffly down to sit beside him.

"Don't-!" came a muffled voice as he laid the cane down.

"I'm not going to touch you," he said reassuringly. "I'm not going to do anything you don't want me to do."

Sherlock twisted his head sideways and glared at him disbelievingly. "I don't believe you," he hissed. "I _can't_ believe you. Not after what you just did."

"I know," nodded John softly. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done that, and I'm sorry."

"Then why?" There was a note of hurt bewilderment in Sherlock's voice. "I don't understand. _Make_ me understand, John."

"You're afraid to be touched," John said slowly. Sherlock straightened indignantly and opened his mouth to deny it, but John lifted his hand towards Sherlock's face as though to cup his cheek and Sherlock instantly froze, eyes widening in alarm. John let his hand hover there, scant inches from the pale skin, as Sherlock's breathing quickened, eyes flicking from the hand to John's face and back.

"Do you want me to touch you, Sherlock?" he asked gently. Sherlock's lips parted as though to speak but no sound came forth. John let his hand drift closer; Sherlock closed his eyes with a faint shudder.

They sat like that for perhaps minutes, whilst John's arm began to slowly cramp; they were motionless, like two breathing statues, the only sign of life the ghostly wraiths of their breath on the chill night air.

After long moments, Sherlock's eyes slowly fluttered open. "No," he breathed.

John let his hand fall.

He was suddenly struck by a thought - a stray memory. Years ago, John and Harry, some overgrown garden somewhere? No - a patch of waste ground, a house had stood there once but now it was just the empty place at the end of an old terrace two streets over from home. They weren't supposed to be there, he remembered, but Harry had insisted and John had just gone along with it. That had always been the way; Harry the fierce headstrong tomboy, leading the way into scrapes - and he the dutiful brother going along with it and frequently being the one to get them both out of it afterwards.

Harry had found a cat there; a feral thing, all bones and black fur and wide eyes and mistrust. Half-starved, it had crouched against the broken wall, ears flattened, frozen by terror. Harry was curious and wanted to poke it with a stick, make it move; but John had stopped her. He'd wondered what had happened to the poor creature to drive it to such a state. He wanted to stroke it, reassure it that whoever had tormented it, he wasn't like them. He'd spoken to it quietly, trying to coax it out of its terror whilst Harry teased him.

They'd left the cat there; they were late for tea and there would be scolding and anyway, Dad would never have let them bring a stray cat home. But he'd wondered what had happened to that cat.

And now, staring at Sherlock, he saw the cat again; saw it in the sharp angular bony form folded in upon itself, the wide eyes - grey, not green, but still somehow feline. The ears weren't flattened, but the black hair was just as wild and dishevelled as it had been all those years ago. And the creature in front of him no more could tell him his story than that other poor creature could.

Except this creature was more than a stray cat; it was Sherlock, his housemate. His friend. And he was damned if he was going to walk away from this one.

"I'm not going to touch you," he said quietly, voice unconsciously dropping into a soft neutral tone. "Take your time. There's no-one else here; just me and you, and I'm not going to touch you or do anything you don't want me to do."

Sherlock regarded him warily, then slowly nodded. Then his thin lips curled in a sneer before he turned away.

"Is this your practiced beside manner, _Doctor_?" he taunted as he pushed himself back up to his feet. "How you talk to traumatised patients, hmm? Shell shock, perhaps?" he barked a brief, harsh laugh. "I'm not your patient, John. I don't need you to patronise me. I don't need -" He stood silently, head lowered as his fists clenched slowly. He glanced to one side, not quite looking back at John as he still knelt on the cold pavement, looking up at him.

"I don't need your _concern_. I don't need -"

He broke off, was silent for a moment, then turned and walked away, the last word unspoken yet heavy upon the cold air between them.

_You._


	4. Chapter 4

John awoke slowly, with some discomfort. Whatever sleep he'd gotten, it hadn't been enough; he ached all over, and when he swung his legs to the floor his leg screamed in pain. He bit his lip and clutched at his thigh, waiting until the spasm in the muscle had died down from a searing heat to a dull throb – still painful, but bearable. Just. It wasn't going to be a good day.

He reached for the cane and laboured slowly to his feet, then tugged on his dressing gown awkwardly before shuffling heavily towards the door. He paused for a moment, hovering over the handle as he wondered what he was about to face. Sherlock's bedroom door had been shut and the flat silent when he'd finally gotten home last night; he'd gone to bed himself in silence, not knowing what state of mind he would find Sherlock in come morning.

Well, he wasn't going to find out by hovering here in front of his own door. He drew a breath, and turned the handle.

There was the sound of something bubbling in the kitchen, footsteps of someone moving around, and the radio was on – something classical, though John couldn't identify it. Tightening his grip on the cane, he limped warily into the living room just as Sherlock strode out of the kitchen, holding up a small glass beaker with some unidentifiable liquid in it up towards the light as he squinted up at it.

John drew another breath, then straightened himself up. “Sherlock, about-”

“Ah-HAH!” crowed Sherlock as he swirled the liquid in the beaker and it abruptly turned dark, sediment suddenly starting to filter out into a dense layer at the bottom of the beaker. “I knew it!” Fishing his phone out of his jacket pocket he tossed it to John without looking at him. “Text Lestrade and tell him he's an idiot.”

Startled, John caught it one-handed, fumbling it to his chest as he gaped at Sherlock who turned on his heel as he strode back to the kitchen.

“Oh, I know,” he called back airily over his shoulder, “You're too _polite_ to tell him that. Very well, tell him that _I_ say he's an idiot.”

“That's hardly news to him,” observed John as he obediently scrolled through Sherlock's contacts list and clicked on Lestrade's name, limping slowly after Sherlock. He punched out the text with his thumb as he leaned heavily on the cane. “What's he missed this time?”

Sherlock whirled round and caught hold of the lapels of John's dressing gown, his face alight with satisfaction. “Everything, John. _Everything_!” He grinned in delight and patted John's cheeks with his slender, cool hands. “Come on and hurry up. Get dressed. We're going out.”

“But – Sherlock, listen. About last night -”

“Later!” called Sherlock impatiently as he stalked off back into the living room.

John sighed, hit “send”, then turned and limped back towards his bedroom again.

  
  


He was careful; in the car, not to sit too close, careful not to brush against Sherlock as they got out at the station, careful to hang back as Sherlock strode on ahead so as to avoid an accidental touch. It was easier with the cane; it gave him an excuse to move slower, to fall behind. A reason for the almost exaggerated care of his movements; the invalid cautious of further pain.

If Sherlock noticed, he said nothing; but then he rarely did, unless it were to marvelously grandstand, revealing all, demonstrating his brilliant observations which everyone else must surely have been utter imbeciles to have missed - which was what he was doing right now, pacing restlessly around Lestrade's office with grand theatrical waves of his hands emphasising his points as he enunciated all of the department's failings whilst the greying detective watched with a faint look of chagrin as he sipped tea from a chipped mug.

John was only half paying attention to what Sherlock was actually saying; he was more intent on watching him perform – and it _was_ a performance, there was no doubt about that. Last night's events might never have happened; the contrast between the hunched-over, frightened wild thing he'd knelt beside – the living ghost whose mind absented itself when presented with unwanted contact, intrusion into his own bodily space, whether pawed at by some random drunken stranger or a caring friend who should have known better _and what was I bloody thinking, I am an utter idiot_ – and the whirling dervish of excitement and brilliance that was Sherlock as he reached the climax of his conclusions as he threw a watch and an envelope down onto the desk blotter in front of Lestrade and declared the case closed, solved, concluded, _done_ was complete and absolute. They could have been two different people.

“Well, John?” declared Sherlock, eyes afire as he turned to him.

“Eh?” replied John helpfully. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“You alright John?” asked Lestrade as he got to his feet and reached towards the watch before hesitating then picking up the envelope instead. “You look like shit.”

“Eh? Oh, no, I'm fine-” began John, waving a hand as he leaned forward and reached for his cane.

“He is not fine, he slept poorly last night and his leg is troubling him and yes, Lestrade, he would love a cup of tea, milk and one sugar, there's a good chap,” interjected Sherlock, casually pushing John back into the chair with one hand as he idly glanced through a folder he'd just plucked from Lestrade's desk, not looking at either man.

“Put that back Sherlock,” replied Lestrade as he made his way to the door, in the tones of someone who doesn't really expect to be obeyed but feels he has to say it for form's sake anyway. John gave him a sympathetic look; Sherlock flashed the detective a triumphant grin then shut the door behind him before spinning to fix John with a piercing stare.

“Your leg is troubling you because something else is troubling you, and it was not the walk back to the flat which you chose to make, following me on foot when you had fourteen pounds and thirty-two pence in your front right trouser pocket with which you might have caught a taxi and saved yourself the pain of walking. You did not sleep well last night for the same reason that you followed me on foot – you are _concerned_ for me even though I told you I do not need and, indeed, _do not want it_.” His voice was sharp and acerbic as he leaned forward, pressing John back into the chair with the hand still gripping the older man's shoulder tightly.

“You are deliberately crippling yourself further out of some misguided notion that you have to worry about me. Stop it. You are useless to me like this.”

“Is that all you care about? How useful I am to you?” exclaimed John, anger tingeing his voice.

Sherlock's hand dropped. “Of course not,” he said, his voice dropping slightly, the edge gone. “I appreciate that you care for me. You put up with all of my rantings, my – my little _foibles_ ,” he gave a small, tight little grin that was gone almost as soon as it appeared, though the hard grey eyes softened a little, “God only knows why, no one else ever has, but you do, and for that I am grateful, John. But this -” He straightened and turned away. “You can't help me, John. Best we both forget last night. It never happened. You'll never do – _that_ – again.”

“No. I promise,” said John in a small voice, and wondered why his eyes were suddenly stinging with tears.


End file.
